


Your Finest Feature

by arrow (esteefee)



Category: due South
Genre: Angst and Humor, April Showers Challenge, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Porn With Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-03-24
Updated: 2008-03-24
Packaged: 2017-10-17 11:21:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/176338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esteefee/pseuds/arrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Benton's got back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Finest Feature

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Laura Shapiro (laurashapiro)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/laurashapiro/gifts).



> ...who posited, _Fraser: best ass in fandom, y/y?_

It's a fine day, the sky a narrow shaft of clear blue hemmed in by the skyscrapers. Fraser allows himself a moment of longing for home in the spring, when the sky at last opens gloriously wide overhead and glows an unfathomable shade between cornflower and periwinkle.

The clock tower chimes, and Fraser shakes away his longing and steps down to the GTO, where Ray is waiting.

"Today, Fraser, is the day we turn it around on Sykes." Ray makes a U-turn and then lets the wheel slide back sensuously through his long fingers.

Fraser tucks his hat onto the dashboard. "Indeed, Ray? And what is the plan?"

"The plan is simple—we pick up Parsons, kick him in the head until he coughs up the info, and then visit Sykes and let drop that Parsons has been talking out of school. Then we watch him until he does something untoward."

Fraser presses back a smile. "Untoward?"

Flashing him a grin, Ray uses his tongue to shift his toothpick to the other side of his mouth. "Untoward, as in, not quite right, in-in-inimicable—"

"Underhanded?"

"That's the ticket. Underhanded, and possibly of a felonious nature."

"That's a lovely sentence, Ray."

"Thank you kindly, Benton-buddy."

"And I think it's an excellent plan." Fraser isn't certain what has put Ray in such high spirits, and he's almost afraid to ask, for fear it will simply annoy his partner directly out of them again. But he cannot resist. "You seem in a good mood today, Ray."

"That I am, Benton."

Fraser is a little startled hearing his Christian name spoken without the customary "buddy" tacked onto the end. The moment of silence stretches a little too long, and Fraser hastily asks, "And what might be the cause?"

Ray turns his head and winks at him, but says nothing more.

Ah. Perhaps his date the previous evening with Ms. Campbell from Child Protective Services is the reason. However, Fraser has never believed in the ungentlemanly habit of "kiss-and-tell," and he certainly won't put Ray in the position of having to break a confidence. In fact, Fraser really doesn't want to know.

In any event, they are already nearing Mr. Parson's address. Ray pulls to the curb and sets the brake.

"Okay, let's bring him in."

If only it were as simple as that. However, upon Ray's knock and self-identification, Mr. Parsons can be heard quite clearly leaving hastily through a rear exit. Fraser is forced to run down the hallway and drop himself out of the window and down one floor to land on the ground, which, most unfortunately, is teeming with rose bushes. The heavy tunic protects his upper body, but the thick thorns manage to penetrate his jodhpurs in a very uncomfortable location.

No matter—the chase is on. Mr. Parsons seems very surprised to discover him clinging to the back of his sedan, and seems even more surprised when, turning forward again, he encounters Ray's GTO blocking the alleyway.

After that, it's simply a matter of Fraser dusting himself off and joining Ray while he reads Parsons the Miranda warning.

In the car on the way to the station, though, Fraser finds himself quite unable to stop shifting in his seat in a fruitless effort to find a position that doesn't exacerbate his, er, thorny issue.

"You got ants in your pants or what?" Ray asks.

"Close enough," Fraser mutters, and then clears his throat. "I'm afraid I neglected to check the ground outside Mr. Parson's window. Apparently his downstairs neighbor keeps rose bushes."

"Hey, those are mine," comes Parsons' somewhat whiny voice from the backseat. "Those are my prized Scentimentals."

A snuffling sound issues from the driver's side, and Fraser turns his head to find Ray laughing into the palm of his hand.

"Do you find something amusing, Ray?"

The snuffle becomes more of a muffled snorting, interspersed with honking inhalations.

"Fine. Happy to serve." Fraser crosses his arms, and then has to put his hand down and raise one hip abruptly.

Back at the station, Ray very easily convinces Mr. Parsons that it would be in his best interests to give them the information they require. Fraser is mildly disappointed to discover his services as "good cop" aren't needed, but he's grateful to have an opportunity to escape to the restroom while Ray is writing up his notes.

Fraser tries his best to locate and extract each thorn, but it's difficult to do so without the use of a hand mirror. He eventually hoists himself up with one leg on the sink to try to use the mirror above it. It is thus, with his tunic off, his trousers dropped and his boxers pushed down to expose the area in question, that Ray finds him.

Of course.

The snuffling begins once again.

"Do you _mind_?" Fraser jerks himself off the sink and hastily straightens his boxers. The material catches roughly on a thorn, and he winces.

"Sorry, sorry," Ray waves his hand. "I swear, it's just—"

"Yes, yes. Adolescently amusing, I suppose."

"—I've never seen you caught with your—"

"And with a personality that hasn't aged past teen-hood, it's only to be expected."

"Hardee har." Ray steps further into the room and makes a placating gesture. "You want a hand, or what?"

Fraser tries, through sheer force of will, to keep the flush from rising past the collar of his Henley. He is completely unsuccessful. Perhaps another lesson in biofeedback is called for.

"That won't be necessary, Ray."

"Oh, yeah?" Ray scratches his neck. "You willing to risk leaving 'em in? I mean, I know you can do pain, Fraser, but what if it gets infected?"

Fraser clenches his teeth.

"Or, I dunno, maybe you end up developing gangrene of the—"

"Very well!" Fraser interrupts as quickly as he can.

"—ass," Ray finishes deliberately.

They stare at each other for a moment in direct challenge.

"All right, then," Fraser says, dropping his eyes first. He turns away, but ends up facing his own, flushed reflection. He turns a little further so the sink is at his right hip.

"Uh, Fraser."

"Yes, Ray?" Fraser says tightly.

"We might want to take this, you know, into one of the stalls."

"Right you are." Fraser holds his breeches up and marches briskly to their stall. He's not quite certain when he started thinking of it as _their_ stall, but it's obvious Ray also considers it so, because he is right there beside him, pushing him through the door. They both crowd in, and then Fraser hears Ray locking the door behind him.

"Okay, maybe straddle the john and lean forward to give me a little room."

Fraser sighs and does as requested, then rests his hands on the back wall. His trousers fall. It is then, in a sudden, frozen moment of horror, that he recognizes the position he's assumed.

 _Oh, dear._ This will be a true test of biofeedback—the final exam, really. He takes a deep breath and it shudders out of him when he feels Ray's hands on the waist of his boxers. Fraser tries desperately to inhale and exhale quietly through his mouth.

Ray lifts Fraser's boxers over his rear and pushes them down.

 _This really isn't—this is not—I am **not**_ —

Fraser feels Ray's warm breath as he leans in close. He feels Ray's fingers on his ass.

He is lost. Truly lost.

There is a pinching sensation, and then a tug.

"One down!" Ray says, and his voice sounds odd, a little deep. Perhaps because of the resonance of the contained space.

A few more pinches, more tugs, and then another, this one on his right cheek, where that particularly annoying thorn had dug in deep. Fraser sighs with relief.

"Think I got 'em all, but I'm not sure—"

Warm hands touch him, brush over his skin. Searching for more thorns, Fraser thinks, that's all. Just trying to find the hidden, embedded ends. Really, there is no reason for his heart to suddenly start pounding. He has complete control of his heart rate—has demonstrated it under much more adverse conditions than this. He takes a deep breath, then another, and forces himself to calm. Then he feels Ray's hands parting his cheeks—

"Yes! Well!" Fraser says, straightening. "Thank you kindly for your help, Ray. I believe that's all of them." There's a thunk behind him as he hastily yanks up his boxers.

"Ow! Shit, Fraser, you made me bang my head."

"I'm terribly sorry, Ray." Fraser pulls up his trousers and hauls his braces over his shoulders. He fastens his fly with some difficulty over the bulge in his groin, and his elbow knocks Ray in the ribs.

"Hang _on,_ damn it." Ray crowds closer too him; too close. But it's only to make room to open the door, Fraser realizes. And then cooler air is rushing in to ease his heated flush.

When all is in order he exits the stall. Ray is standing there, Fraser's tunic held open before him. Odd, but Ray's face is also flushed. In an embarrassing instant, Fraser understands Ray must have been more than a little mortified to have to crouch down and touch his partner's rear-end, all in the line of duty.

"Thank you, Ray," Fraser says sincerely. "That really was above and beyond the call of friendship. Thank you, and I'm sorry about your head."

Ray stares at him, but says nothing.

"And your ribs," Fraser adds for good measure, and steps forward to slip his arms into his tunic. He begins buttoning. "So," he says, trying to re-establish a sense of normalcy, "Do we now go after Sykes?" Fraser retrieves his belt and strap from their perch over the trashcan.

Ray stares at him another moment, and then shrugs his shoulders. "Nah. Sykes gave a bum address to his parole officer. We're gonna have to dig him up tomorrow."

"That's extremely dishonest."

"Yeah, he's the dishonest type." One of Ray's brilliant smiles flashes across his face, but he's frowning at the same time. "Anyway, what say we pick up the Diefster and head over to my place? You owe me for my services."

It's puzzling. Fraser would have thought for certain that Ray would be following up on his triumph with Ms. Campbell the night before. "Of course, if you like. Pineapple pizza?"

Ray shakes his head and leads the way out the door. "I think we should go with pepperoni tonight. Try something new."

Fraser hopes he is successful in disguising his relief.

Pineapple on pizza. Honestly.

///

The pepperoni is excellent—it reminds Fraser of pemmican. In a way. He does wish Ray would allow him to put some on their pizza some day, but so far Ray has remained adamant in his refusal.

For a man who's said he'll try anything, Ray does seem particularly rigid about what he'll put in his mouth.

Diefenbaker has no such scruples, of course. He will consume anything within the radius of his jaws, which is why Ray has weighted down the lid of the pizza box with a stack of CDs. In the player is some group called "The Hoey Mobuffs."

"They're Swedish," is Ray's explanation as the first, frenetic notes fill the room. He turns down the stereo at Fraser's wince.

"So," Fraser says, in the manner of ripping off a band-aid, or perhaps yanking out a thorn, "You, ah, had a nice time with Ms. Campbell last night?" He really shouldn't be asking this. Perhaps it is more in the form of a hair shirt.

Ray gives him a very strange look as if he's expecting a joke, but then his face smoothes. "It went okay. I mean, she's nice. And she thinks I'm cute."

"Cute."

"Yeah. Cute." Ray grins. "She says my very finest feature is my hair."

"She's wrong," Fraser says without thinking. Without, indeed, pinning his lips shut and cramming his fist against his mouth to prevent himself.

"Oh, yeah? Ray's eyes narrow and he leans one elbow on the back of the couch. He smiles suddenly, an upward curl on one side, almost a leer. "So, what would _you_ say is my finest feature?"

Fraser is struck dumb. Or he would be, if he had even the tiniest bit of sense, but instead he finds himself saying, "Your hands. Of course, your hands."

Ray raises an eyebrow and holds his hands out. "These old things?"

"Yes, they're, ah—" Fraser stares down at Ray's hands. Ray spreads his fingers and wiggles them a little as if urging him to continue. "You have long fingers, of course, which are very useful for, well, various tasks. They're supple, lively. When you talk—your hands—and when driving—" Fraser forces himself to halt his incoherent babbling. He's tempted to slap himself in the face, a habit he'd had as a child to punish himself for particularly bad sins or mistakes.

He imagines Ray's expression should he do so now. He has to imagine Ray's expression because Fraser is absolutely incapable of raising his eyes at the moment.

"That's good to know," Ray says, and his voice is low and filled with and intonation that is...well, the only proper term is "sultry."

Fraser's heart twitches. Other parts of his anatomy follow suit.

"And...what would you say—well, not that you have given it any thought, but if pressed—which of my features, if any, would you say is...fine?" Fraser looks up hesitantly.

" _Your_ finest feature?" Ray tilts his head skeptically, and Fraser feels himself bristle.

"Yes. Mine."

"I just don't know. I think I'll have to go with...your hat."

"My hat." A joke, of course. Rather a funny one, really, except Fraser doesn't feel much like laughing.

"Yeah, definitely the hat, but only because right now you're sitting down."

It takes a few moments for the words to push past Fraser's mortification. "You mean—?"

"Your ass, Fraser. I'm talking about your ass." Ray's lean is more pronounced, now—his face is a mere foot away. "That's the one that's been most on my mind just lately."

"On your mi—"

"I think it took the number one top spot about, oh, ninety-three minutes ago."

Strictly speaking, what Fraser does next could be properly deemed a _lunge_ , although Ray is later to refer to it as more of a pounce. Well, to quote him exactly, " _You jumped me, Fraser. Pure and simple—you jumped my bones."_

 __Ray's lips are full, and soft, and damp, and his right hand—that beautiful hand—is sinking deep into the hair at the back of Fraser's neck, his thumb stroking just below the hairline and sending shivers down Fraser's spine. He is kissing Ray's lips, fighting with Ray's tongue, which seems to want to press deeply into Fraser's mouth, but right now he wants to taste Ray, taste him while he has a chance, before it's too late and—

Ray pulls away, making Fraser panic. Outwardly, he is sure he shows no signs of it, but inside his heart is racing.

"Don't look like that. I just want to get more comfortable." Ray pushes him up, and Fraser realizes he has positively crushed Ray underneath him into the corner of the couch.

"Oh, dear." Fraser scuttles backward, but Ray follows him and grabs his shoulder.

"Do me a favor? Turn this puppy off for just a minute—" Ray taps Fraser on the side of his head. A little too hard, actually, and Fraser winces. Ray grins.

"All right." Fraser would agree to pretty much anything at this point, but at Ray's request he tries to stifle the questions teeming his brain— _What does this mean? Is he serious? How could I have missed this?_

"Hey! What did I just say?"

Ray delivers another tap, this one even harder, and Fraser growls, "Well, if you would just _kiss_ me, Ray, instead of—what _are_ you doing, exactly?"

"I'm trying to get these damned suspenders off."

"Allow me." Fraser pushes Ray away and nudges off his braces, then starts to take off his shirt, but Ray grabs his hands.

"Nuh-uh. Just the pants. Drop the pants."

Fraser shudders and does as Ray asks, does as Ray next directs him, kneeling on the sofa with his chest against the back and his jodhpurs around his calves, and next his boxers are being pushed down and— _dear sweet God_ —this is exactly what he has wanted, what he has dreamed, and it simply isn't possible that Ray is interested in giving it to him—

"Ouch! Ray!" Fraser rubs the back of his head.

"Final warning, Fraser, because you gotta relax for this next part, and there's no way you can do that while your brain is working. This is a not-brain thing." Ray's voice is hoarse, a sexy, throaty rumble that is causing the head of Fraser's penis to seep against the back of the sofa.

Fraser deliberately relaxes then, going so far as to let his shoulders and chest take his weight and his hands hang loosely at his sides. Ray disappears and Fraser waits patiently, his mind a careful blank, until Ray returns and pushes his shirt up and runs his hands up Fraser's back and then down again, at which point is no longer necessary to suppress thought, because all Fraser can do is feel. He feels Ray's hands on the cheeks of his ass, feels Ray laying a kiss right on the worst of the wounds from the thorns.

"Such a fucking tragedy," Ray says, his lips and tongue moving against Fraser's skin. "Defacement of a public art work, 'swhat it is. There's gotta be an ordinance on the books somewhere. Isn't there, Fraser?" Ray's lips give him a sucking kiss.

"Not...public." Fraser moans. "Yours. It's yours—"

"Good answer." There's the crinkle of a condom wrapper, then Ray parts his cheeks, and this time Fraser lets him, tries to spread his legs within the band of his boxers, which are trapped under his shins; and this time Ray touches him at his core, at the center of him, stroking two slick fingers around and around and then _inside_. Inside, where Fraser feels his muscles quiver and stretch and spasm tightly when Ray touches him just there, right _there_ , and within a minute Fraser is close to climaxing.

"Please, Ray, please, hurry—"

"You ask so nice—" His long fingers move again.

"Don't, I'm—" Fraser is panting, and Ray sounds no better off. His breath thunders in Fraser's ear as Ray leans over him, and then, and then—hard, thick warmth pushing _in—_ Ray moans, a guttural sound that ratchets Fraser's excitement even more, so that when finally Ray makes his first, hard thrust, penetrating him fully, Fraser whimpers and starts climaxing helplessly, far too soon, his body one giant convulsion of pleasure.

"Jesus, Fraser," Ray says, " _Christ_." He pulls back and thrusts, and Fraser shudders and peaks again, and again, until he is limp and his mouth is dry and Ray has one hand low on Fraser's shaft, working it gently through its final twitches.

"Dear God, Ray."

"You're incredible." Ray leans back, and one of his hands covers the back of Fraser's neck as he begins pumping inside him. Ray whispers, "Just beautiful," and Fraser knows he is looking down, watching himself moving in and out, and the thought, the image, is enough to make Fraser close his eyes and clutch weakly with his internal muscles, wanting to keep Ray inside where it still feels so wonderful, a slick tingle of motion—Ray is motion and power, and now that power is moving inside him, between Fraser's thighs. When Ray thrusts deep and holds there, pressed tight, Fraser reaches backward to grasp his hip, and he clenches hard around Ray's shaft, the better to feel it pulsing with his orgasm.

"Oh, Fraser, oh—" Ray grips Fraser's head to turn it, and Fraser meets his lips. They kiss awkwardly, a loose, wet tangle of tongue and lips, before Ray reluctantly lets him go. He withdraws, and Fraser gasps—more at the loss than the momentary twinge of discomfort.

"Man, I've got lube all over me. I have to go clean up." With one last pat on Fraser's buttock, Ray pads off. Fraser hears the shower starts up. He lies still for a moment, until his peace is broken by Diefenbaker's comment.

"A bribe? You want a bribe? Whatever for?"

Dief snorts.

"Oh, and since when do you think my father would listen to you? He hardly even listens to me." Still, Fraser rises slowly and pushes aside the CDs to open the pizza box. He throws a slice to Dief, who catches it neatly before dropping it between his paws. Fraser grabs some napkins and uses them to mop up his embarrassingly copious emissions.

"Besides, if my father doesn't like recent developments, he can just...kiss my ass."

///

Fraser takes his own shower, and finds it hard to meet Ray's eyes when he gets out, as if the act of cleaning has washed away his easiness. But Ray pushes him back down onto the couch and puts his head in Fraser's lap, his face turned toward the television. Fraser pets the bright gold of his hair just at his hairline, and whispers, "Number two." And he bends to kiss the corner of Ray's eye, whispering, "Three," and by the time he gets to number eleven—Ray's shoulder tattoo—Ray has grabbed Fraser's hand and placed it over the bulge at his crotch.

Later—after Fraser has spread Ray face down on the bed and plunged his tongue inside Ray's opening, felt the strong muscle twitching around his tongue, and after Fraser has slowly pressed inside him, felt the melting heat of Ray opening to him, and made him thrash and whimper and come around him until Fraser cries out in an ecstasy of belonging—Fraser says, "I do believe I have acquired a new number one."

And Ray laughs.

.....................  
2008.03.24


End file.
